Chapter 21 #3
I nod. ‘The stronger the scent, the stronger the emotion. It makes it more . . . tantalising.’
Astin frowns. ‘Can you smell me?’
‘I’m trying not to.’ I tie off the end of the final stitch. The black string resembles jagged teeth across a bleeding mouth. ‘Most of the time you’re hard to read, anyway. Your emotions are all over the place, like they’re . . .’ Oh. Oh.
He raises a brow. ‘They’re . . . ?’
‘. . . Confused,’ I admit. ‘You’re frequently confused. But that can’t always be because of me, can it?’
I can’t decide if this is flattering or not.
He rubs his chest again. ‘I doubt it.’
Definitely not flattering. ‘Well, currently I can tell you’re in pain. Your scent is sharp, like citrus. It intensifies when you move.’ I clamp a hand on his leg, because I can tell he’s getting antsy sitting still, and I get a whiff of something else.
Something familiar.
I lean closer, my nose brushing his shirt, and he tenses. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You wanted to understand me; now I’m trying to understand you,’ I say.
His breath hitches as my nose travels across his chest. His actual scent hits me first: pine and musk and dried blood.
Beneath that though . . . ‘When you’re not moving, you smell warm.
A little floral. But there’s also spice and burnt amber and hot honey.
’ I swallow. ‘I recognise those from the maze.’
His hand finds my hip. ‘Right. The maze.’
I pull my head back – in retrospect, sniffing him was a weird thing to do, but in my defence, he did ask if I could smell him – and when I meet his gaze, parts of me tighten.
His fingers dig into my waist. My chest heaves.
I can almost see the reflection of what happened in the maze in his eyes, the memory playing out before me: him on top of my body, his hands pushing up my blouse, his lips hot and wet against my ear, whispering all the things I thought he’d never say –
Abruptly, I stand, ignoring the way my heart thumps against my ribcage, like if I won’t allow it to say the things it wants to say, it’ll break free and splatter all my feelings on the floor.
Astin’s mouth opens and closes. I imagine he’s confused again.
Welcome to the club.
I pace the room, wishing it was morning already.
I’m too big for my body, every moment I spend with Astin pulling the pieces of me out of place until I can’t fit them together again.
I’m as haphazard and jagged as those stitches on his leg.
I’m incredibly aware we’re once again in a room with only one bed.
‘Well, if I gave the Duck in the Dark two stars, this place definitely deserves one. Maybe even zero.’
I expect him to chastise me for rambling, but his lips curl. ‘I don’t know. The fire’s a positive.’
‘Amenities, check. Plus, as we’ve established, blankets.’
‘Blankets are nice,’ he agrees, although I suspect he’s making fun of me. He clears his throat. ‘We should get some rest before daybreak.’
I nod, removing my boots and wincing when my socks squelch on the floor.
‘And, um, we should get out of these wet clothes. Let them dry by the fire,’ Astin says, rising to his feet with a groan.
‘But my spare clothes are drenched too,’ I remind him. ‘We don’t have anything to sleep in.’
He stares at me. I stare at him.
Oh, hexes.
He can’t be suggesting what I think he’s suggesting. But he’s scratching his cheek, refusing to look in my direction. There’s a strong chance he’s suggesting exactly what I think he is.
My skirt takes the opportunity to release a fat goblet of water that lands on the floor with a splat, proving the point that I don’t want to sleep in this thing.
‘Okay,’ I say in a high-pitched voice. ‘Fine. Good idea. Yes.’
‘I’ll clean myself in the washroom while you . . . yeah.’
He limps away, leaving me to undress in peace, only to discover it’s not just my clothes that are soaked through, but everything. My underwear is clammy and damp and uncomfortable. I hop from one foot to another. Do I? Should I?
Maybe I can build a pillow fort around myself, so he’ll never know.
I strip quickly, hang everything up as best I can, and dive under the blanket to discover there’s only one pillow.
Total. Oh, hexes. We can’t share this without him realising how far I took his let’s get naked idea.
I sit up, intending to rectify the situation before he knows anything about it, but the door opens before I get the chance, forcing me to scurry as deep beneath the blanket as I can.
Shit. Shit. Unless I want to admit to him what I’ve done and the fact I’ve already had reservations about it, which sounds like a wholly embarrassing conversation, I’m going to have to play this off as part of the plan.
In fact, I can blame him. He told me to get out of my wet things, so I did. Here I am. Wet-thing-free. Ready to sleep beside him, as promised.
The problem is, as he emerges from the washroom and I realise with sharp clarity he’s about to get in alongside me, sleep is the absolute last thing on my mind.
And from the aroma filling the room, like someone’s overturned a pepper pot, I think it’s the last thing on his mind too.